Lucio’s wrist pained him. It had started in Capo d’Orlando as he wrestled his suitcase down to the motorcar and had sharpened on the drive to Messina and then worsened in the rattling train compartment north of Rome. He had listened to the rain on the windows and folded the book he was reading over one finger and stared gloomily out at the passing landscape, his shoes unlaced and set beneath his seat with the toes together. Later as he walked through the cold station in Milan, rubbing at his wrist, peering around him, he thought in disgust: There is not enough poetry in you, Lucio, to make this beautiful.
His sister had told his cousin of the journey. So be it. He briefly considered going directly to his friend Federici at Mondadori but changed his mind. The day was waning; Lucio was tired; let his cousin’s business wait. He stood in line for the taxi and got in and fumbled in his various pockets until he found the hotel address.
He understood his presence in Milan would, in some way, be seen as a tacit approval of his cousin’s writing. He was eager not to risk his own reputation; he was eager, that is, to make of his cousin’s novel a success.
But not too much of a success. What was it Casimiro had said, on that morning of his departure? If you feed the Monster, Lucio, it will only get hungrier.
How they had laughed at that, the red sun in their eyes, the boom of breakers rolling in far below.
At his hotel he sat by the cold window, turning the pages of his book, unable to concentrate. Though it was still afternoon he needed the lamps to read by. In Sicily the sea is our lamp, he thought. At last he rose. At the washbasin he shaved using one of his cousin’s English razors, he smoothed down his hair, he added a dab of scent to his neck and his wrists. Lastly he changed his suit and collected up his umbrella and raincoat across one arm and studied himself in the mirror. A small homunculus, little black eyes too close together, the long nose of a bandit. He wondered what Casimiro would say, to see him dressed so. The suit had been tailored in Rome last year, a modern cut, but Lucio had not worn it and instead hidden it in his wardrobe in Capo d’Orlando, embarrassed. But Casimiro did not know, as Lucio did, how the fashions of the world were changing, and how men were judged in the north. Craftsmanship did not matter, only newness.
He went down. Under the dripping awning of the hotel he lit a cigarette and studied the street and then he punched open his umbrella and started to walk. The smoke curled into the umbrella’s shell, lingered. He passed a café with American music jangling loudly from a jukebox, turned left down an ancient alley that had somehow survived the war. There were boys in soaked shirts standing around a motorcycle, admiring its curves. A tattooed man in an undershirt stood in a doorway, wiping a cloth at his throat, while someone hollered from within. Lucio crossed the street, passed a shuttered cinema, walked on.
He turned left onto Via Bagutta, towards the trattoria. There the city’s literati ate, argued, even some nights slept, and there Lucio felt, as a visiting poet, that he ought to be seen. But his modern suit, with its narrow shoulders, tugged and crushed at him, so that he felt distinctly not himself, and the fact was he knew few writers in Milan and, worse, feared none would know him.
Outside the trattoria he shook out his umbrella, wiped his shoes unhurriedly, and then went in. Jazz was playing somewhere in the smoke. Two men shoved past Lucio, arguing loudly, vaguely familiar. He caught a glimpse of a long horselike face, wrapped in a fur stole, peering down at him in interest. Was she an actress? The entrance was dim, smoky, a wall of noise and hot spices from the kitchen. He pressed through the crowds and introduced himself and was shown to his reservation. The other tables were full, the restaurant roaring. Only Lucio sat alone. At such times he felt acutely his own isolation, how apart he stood from the literary world. He was seated at a small table in the far corner and he sat with his back to the wall and busied himself lighting a cigarette and studying the wine selection and adjusting his table setting.
Did he admire his cousin’s novel? Giuseppe, soft-spoken, ironic, bitter, had a talent for synthesizing his reading, for juxtaposing writers and languages and cultures. He was an enthusiast. But was he an artist? Lucio grimaced. He had seen how tired his cousin looked of late, how ill, had heard him coughing in the mornings during his stay at Capo d’Orlando, and he understood how the writing had exhausted him. The novel itself was shocking, amusing, a delicious send-up of their shared ancestors and class, but Lucio could not imagine its appeal to readers beyond Sicily. It did not help that he knew Giuseppe had only started writing it after Lucio’s own success as a poet. If I am certain of nothing else, Giuseppe had told him dryly, it is that I am no more of a fool than you, my dear cousin. Envy, and competitiveness, Lucio felt, were ugly wellsprings to draw poetry from.
He was being unkind. He caught a glimpse of himself, warped, haggard, rippling in the tarnished mirror beside the door. It was this errand, it was being in the north, it was being here at the trattoria that made him think such thoughts.
He thought of Casimiro as he had bid farewell, the slant of the sunlight across the tiles in the villa. His brother and sister, he knew, did not take his reputation as a poet seriously. They viewed it at a distance, as if from a great height, ironic and detached: they smiled condescendingly down at their younger brother. He suspected they thought him affected, his verses insincere. And then Capo d’Orlando came to him, unbidden, the low hiss of the gardens in the evening, and he understood how much his poetry depended on that place. He was no Verga; he would not be able to leave Sicily without losing the poetry. It would fade slowly, like a bowl of water left out in the sun, but it would fade all the same. It would not keep.
He should not be here, he thought unhappily; he should be at home, in his garden, writing. He glanced around the room, at the tables filled with laughing diners, and felt a quick low loathing. Would any of them have read his Canti Barocchi? But he knew it did not matter. He would always only be a guest in such rooms, a stranger begging acceptance; and beg he would, for he had no pride, he thought in shame, and what he wanted could be given by no one.
A darkness was cast across the table, interrupting his thoughts, and he looked up in alarm. The poet Montale stood with his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket, his black hair slicked back, his frown jowled. His eyes were very pale.
Don Lucio, he said, with a bow. You are very far from home, my friend.
And Lucio stared at the man feeling suddenly grateful, and flattered, and ashamed of his own desperation. Signor Montale, he said, with a polite smile. I hope you will join me.
You are the only one, Don Lucio, whose company I could bear tonight.
Nothing is the matter, I hope?
Montale sat, grimaced. No, nothing. Only exhaustion. Too many poets, too little poetry.
Lucio smiled. He set his cigarette into the corner of his mouth and held a hand high for the waiter to bring a second table setting. What brings you to Milan, signore? he said.
Business at Mondadori. And you?
Business at Mondadori.
Now the poet, too, smiled. He lit a cigarette, sat wreathed in fire.
You are not here for the Premio Bagutta, then, Lucio said.
Montale’s cool eyes took in the room, the oblong light in the frames on the walls, the ladies in their sleek black dresses turning the stems of their wine glasses like cut flowers. A low bopping jazz drifted through the partition. No, he said. No, Mondadori wishes to discuss my new collection of poems. I, like you, suffer Milan only for my art. I will be leaving as soon as I am able.
Lucio smiled a pained smile. I did not know there was a new book, he said.
There is not. At least not one worth publishing yet.
Does it have a title?
Montale studied him. He tilted his head, ran a weathered hand smoothly, carefully, over his hair. La bufera e altro, he said, reluctant.
Yes. I like it.
Montale grunted, but Lucio could see he was pleased. Waiters were drifting through the smoke like shades of the gathered dead and Lucio thought of Dante’s infernal whirlwind, la bufera infernal, che mai non resta, and wondered secretly at the man’s bravado.
Pozza printed a run a few months back, Montale continued. Privately, you understand. But Mondadori wishes to bring it to the commercial market. I do not know if the poems are ready. He waved an irritated hand. But you, you are writing more lyrics, I hope? You cannot know quite what a strange sight you cut here, Don Lucio, with your sunburnt hands. You are like a memory of our August. How is that cousin of yours, the one you brought to San Pellegrino?
Giuseppe? Oh he still scribbles, when he thinks no one is watching. The offhanded cruelty in his reply surprised him. He felt the heat rise to his face, as if he had betrayed some ugliness about himself, and he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward and folded his cigarette smoothly into the ashtray. I do not mean to tease, he said, all at once serious. Giuseppe is a gifted writer.
A critic, was he not?
A novelist.
Montale smoked in silence, absorbing this. Lucio watched him. The lamp’s shadow fell aslant his face so that his eyes glittered. At last he said, The Sicilian aristocracy must be more careful, dear Lucio. All of Italy will learn of its abilities.
Lucio smiled, shrugged a rumpled shoulder. For shame, he said.
Later, in the shadows of his hotel room, he would lean into the windowframe and shake out his aching wrist, wondering that he had not mentioned his cousin’s manuscript. Montale was a man of taste and a critic of influence. In the street below a car would pass, its brake lights sleek and glowing. Lucio would shake his head, reach up, draw the curtains closed. No, he would tell himself, the novel was under consideration already, it would do Giuseppe no favours to distribute it on the sly. And if Montale were to feel it inferior, or weak? In that late hour Lucio would run a thumb lightly over his moustache, considering. Such a judgment might devastate his cousin.
And embarrass yourself, he would think, before he could stop himself. He would leave the window, stand at the foot of the small bed, suddenly unhappy. And he would wonder if his cousin appreciated the trouble he was going to.
The following afternoon he met with his friend. Count Federici was a tall man, balding, impeccably dressed in a blue suit and yellow tie. His face grew craggier each year, more melancholy, like the face of a man with a secret, his voice rougher and softer, all this in sharp contrast to the warmth and kindness of his manner. He was, Lucio considered, almost Russian in this way. There were not such men in Palermo.
My dear friend, Federici was saying now, in his hoarse whisper. He unfolded himself from his seat, all knees and elbows, six and a half feet of refined breeding, and he stretched his long arms wide and embraced the Sicilian without embarrassment. For a moment Lucio’s cheek was crushed up against the count’s ribs, he caught the quick warm scent of sweat and cologne, and then he was released, held again out at arm’s length. How well you look, Federici rasped, how wonderful. Come, sit. I have ordered us a bottle of the Regaleali—
Lucio, already flustered, felt his face twitch. I shall forget I am in the north, Don Federici, he said.
—and then we shall discuss the poetry. A wide magnanimous smile opened the count’s face to acknowledge Lucio’s comment and then his face closed again upon itself. You are well? Of course you are. Tell me what you are writing. I wish to know all about it. A new collection, I trust?
Yes—
I expect you must be curious how the Canti are selling. You should know we are pleased, my friend. The collection has received several fine notices. Shall I send them to you? Well, consider it. No need to answer now. Let me know.
They sat beside a window with the restaurant’s name painted in gold letters and through the glass the rain in the street billowed and swept in sheets. The daylight was cold, feeble. The table had been set for three and Lucio observed this as his friend spoke, feeling uneasy, but his friend did not comment on any guest joining them and Lucio, out of politeness, did not inquire. His gaze strayed to a small purple stain next to his water glass and he wondered that the cloth had not been changed.
Across the room a fire had been lit and the restaurant, despite the weather, struck Lucio as mild, sedentary, and cozy.
The wine arrived, chilled, golden. Federici raised his glass. Have you given any thought to the anthology?
Lucio stared at his friend. He could not recall anything about an anthology.
Did I not mention it? The Sicilian collection? Ah. Federici smiled, his smile fell again away. We are thinking it might be time, with the recent interest in the Mezzogiorno, for a collection of writings on the south. Sicily in particular. It occurred to me you might have an essay or a poem—?
He felt all at once pleased, but eager not to betray his delight. I might be able to locate something, he said. Yes.
Wonderful.
A poem, perhaps.
Very good.
He crossed his legs, picked at his threads as if considering. You will want an unpublished piece, a new piece?
Oh, I do not think it matters, my friend.
They sat then in companionable silence for a long moment.
Don Federici, Lucio said, clearing his throat.
Yes?
What is the news of my cousin’s novel? I sent you two further chapters, last month, but heard nothing.
Your cousin’s novel.
Il Gattopardo. Yes. Lucio felt a sudden alarm, wondering if his friend had failed to bring it to Mondadori’s attention, if he had already dismissed it from his mind. But then Federici raised his chin and nodded.
It is an interesting account, he said. What is it your cousin wishes to achieve with it?
To achieve?
Who does he imagine its audience to be?
The sharpness of this comment struck Lucio forcibly, so close was it to his own uncharitable assessment. He felt himself beginning to blush and rubbed at his chin. What do you mean, Federici? It is a novel, it is written for readers of novels.
I have not finished it yet, you understand.
You should.
I fear it is rather old-fashioned. It is inspired by Joyce.
Federici raised his eyebrows. He leaned back in the cane chair. Perhaps I have not reached that part in the manuscript yet, he said gently. You do know that it is not my decision. I offer only a reader’s report. Vittorini is reading it also.
I would not think this to his taste.
Federici frowned slightly. In the end, Mondadori will decide for itself, he said.
Lucio nodded.
Tell me honestly, Lucio, Federici said. What is your opinion of it?
Lucio paused. He took the lemon from the rim of his ice water, crushed it into his glass. Then he looked up. It is a masterpiece, he said.